Masochist me/The story

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Revision as of 03:01, 15 March 2017

Interviewer: So, if I may ask, what do you do?

Me: Do?

I gave him a quizzical look.

Interviewer: I mean, what is your job? What do you do for a living?

Me: I am an escort.

He gave me a look that said it all.

Me: You don't approve of escorts?

Interviewer: No, it isn't that. It's just that, why would you chose escort? When most people say escort, it really just means prostitute.

Me: While being an escort can have some similarities to being a prostitute, they are very different.

I glared at him to show that I did not approve of the comparison.

Interviewer: Sorry, I really don't know the difference. Can you tell me?

Me: While some escorts may have sex with clients, and yes, before you ask, I do...

I gave him another glare for good measure.

Me: Sex isn't really required. Oh, sure, many men will expect it, and if you want to make good money, you will need to be willing to do it, it is not a requirement. We are "escorts". We are paid to escort others. To parties, to events, even to dinner or to meet their family. What I do is legal, because I am paid to be a companion, not to be a sexual partner.

I could see from his expression that he just thought I was splitting hairs.

Me: Whatever, it is obvious to me you think I am just a glorified prostitute. So, what else do you want to know.

Interviewer: Sorry, I am not trying to seem like that. I just, when people here escort, they automatically think "prostitute". Well, anyways, I guess, why escort? I mean, most of society views it this way, so, doesn't it make you feel, something...

Me: Humiliated?

Interviewer: No. Yes, oh, I don't know. Well, I mean, what do you think when you tell someone what your job is? How do they react?

Me: Well, I love my job.

The interviewer interrupts.

Interviewer: Love? But, it is so demeaning and degrading. I mean, you could be so much more than a, than a...

He trailed off under my expression.

Me: You asked me for the interview. You can embarrass me, degrade me, humiliate me all you wish. But, if you do not stop attacking me, and my profession, and approach it with a more open mind, then this interview will be over. Now, can you hold your tongue, hold your stupid, uneducated opinions, for the rest of the interview?

I waited for some response. After looking at his feet for a few seconds, he finally managed a nod.

Me: Did you know I have two college degrees?

He looked at me like I was lying.

Me: You might find this funny, but the first was social psychology. Given I am...different...I wanted to find out more about...my particular...differences. I wanted to understand why I was different.

Interviewer: Any answers?

Me: None. You should study it. Basically, my conclusion is, no one is completely sure. Oh, I went through the list. Daddy issues: No. Abusive childhood: No. Sexual assault: No. Low self esteem: No. Blah blah blah. Nothing I learned, nothing the professors knew, nothing other visiting professionals knew, could explain it. The best "assumption" is literally the wired differently. That, somehow, the pain centers have some mixed up wire in my head. Maybe I should have went for clinical psychology instead?

Interviewer: Sorry, I don't know. Anyways, the second degree?

Me: Business.

Interviewer: Business? Wow, so, why...

Me: Why am I working as an escort? Well, you have a degree, in journalism I assume?

He nodded yes.

Me: Well, when I first started school, I worked at a fast food restaurant. I found it...horrible.

Interviewer: What do you mean?

Me: Well, have you ever been to a fast food restaurant? The spaces are cramped, the conditions of the kitchen are hot, greasy, and honestly, after smelling everything day after day after day, become nauseating. And the rules? I mean, you need to put the ketchup on just the right spot on the burger.

Interviewer: Really? Seems like they picked the wrong spot, because it always squishes out the sides.

I nodded.

Me: Exactly. It never seems to matter. But get it wrong, and you are in trouble. Even the ingredients need to be counted. Four pickles. Put five on, and you are in trouble for costing the company money.

Interviewer: Yeah, I could see how that could be rather annoying.

Me: So, I left, and tried my hand at a supermarket. The cashier.

Interviewer: How did that go?

Me: Horrible. People asking stupid questions, doing stupid things. Like, once, some customer thought it would be fun to pay in pennies, and his bill was over one hundred dollars...or people acting like they know the price better than the store computer, then standing their yelling about wanting to see a manager while the manager takes her sweet time.

Interviewer: Sounds...difficult...

Me: Not to mention all the solicitations I received. So many men, their brains just shutting down, saying things like "Hey, you are too beautiful for this place. You would never have to work again with me." I stood there, just looking at him with my mouth hung open. Overweight, unkempt, in clothes from the bargain bin...and so many attempts at flattery, about my eyes, how pretty I am, how hot I am, how...whatever. Or just the plain pickup lines, some so horrible they made me cringe. "Hi beautiful. What time do you get off work? I would love to take you back to my place." Almost every day I got hit on by someone, and many times, more than once a day. You must understand, in that environment, the customer is always right. Even when they are not...

Interviewer: Sorry, you lost me there. What does the whole "the customer is always right" have to do with it being awkward being asked out?

Me: When you are there, in front of a customer, it is bad policy to tell a customer no if it can be avoided. But, our personal lives are completely separate. So, you are coming to us as a customer and asking us for something personal. You wouldn't go up to a male cashier and ask him if he wants to come over to your house to do something, would you? Not unless you guys are already friends outside of work.

Interviewer: Yes, I never really thought of it that way.

Me: Anyways, I got fed up with it.

The last "job" I had